I’ve just met Mrs. Williams, and I’ll forever be a better human because of it.
On this particular occasion in Richmond, our job is to replace the floor in her kitchen. I mean, it’s a complete disaster.
The old wood-fired pot belly stove (yup, you read that right) leans to the left because of the rotted floorboards. That lean creates a visible disconnect between the stove and the chimney.
I wonder what the air in this kitchen is like when she fires up the stove. Does she even fire up the stove? Of course, she does. It’s THE stove.
You can’t get to the sink without straddling the 18-inch hole in front of it. Over to the left, daylight shines through a breach in the wall. Look a little harder, and you see the telltale signs of the plethora of critters that also call this structure their home. At first, I’m disillusioned about the breach. But then, I thank God for that breach because the smell is overwhelming.
Mrs. Williams is 82 with a perpetual smile on her face. She’s your grandmother. She’s my grandmother. She’s everyone’s grandmother.
She flits about as we work on her floor throughout the week, always smiling. She moves pretty good for her age, but still, I have no idea how she gets to that sink. Maybe she doesn’t.
She and Mr. Williams moved into this house, a parsonage, a billion years ago when Mr. Williams became the pastor of the nearby Church. Mr. Williams died almost 10 years ago, but Mrs. Williams is like a freight train.
She continues to feed the hungry, smile at the sad, and hug those who need love. The front porch supports a constant stream of people who need what Mrs. Williams provides. Unfortunately, that porch is straining under the heaviness.
She’s kept on keeping on. But now, her house is crumbling like the neighborhood around her.
